Bleak December
by blackinkonbluelines
Summary: Bucky Barnes was captured by Hydra, and no one was coming to the rescue. He knew that. A glimpse into what really happened...answers to questions the first film totally skipped over...and maybe just a little bit of torture.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **_Welcome to my __imaginings__ of Bucky Barnes' time as a WWII Hydra captive. This is meant to be choppy, as I think that's how he'd remember the experience. It does also go back and forth in time as Bucky goes between reality and his dreams/memories. Yes, there will be some Steve Rogers, but you much have some __patience. Thank you for your time and support!_

**The** Hydra camp reeked of sweat, oxidized metal, and humanly odors so overwhelming the smell was nearly tangible. Amid the pops and creaks of metal and steam were the stifled sniffs and tears of grown men. In the small cages they were packed into, the soldiers of the US army disintegrated into the most base versions of themselves. Some sank to the floor, curling in on themselves, rocking back and forth while muttering incoherently. Some traded stories. Hearing stories of homes and dames helped to keep them sane. Then there were those who kept shifts rattling the bars and screaming themselves hoarse, promising to cut the Nazi-Hydra throats open before they could think to call for their mothers.

There were many who kept to themselves entirely, but only a few would sit, ever-stoic, with set jaws, hollowed cheeks, and angled brows. Bucky Barnes was one of these men who sat facing the cage door. Over the last few nights the silence and stillness embodied him so wholly. Initially he'd been one of the men yelling threats and strangling the bars. Fury rouged his cheeks and the tips of his ears, but his fury wasn't blind. Bucky was always a calculating man, knowing which battles were better left unfought. Rattling bars and screaming obscenities felt nice, but he knew it would lead nowhere. So he sat. He observed. The chances of a rescue team being sent out, he knew, were next to none. But Bucky could watch and plan. He could get his men out of there.

He hardly slept, but when he did, he dreamed of home. He dreamed of what tiny Steve Rogers would do were he caged with him. Steve would be at the bars, throwing all ninety-five pounds of his weight into shaking them. His threats would be big, but the guards would know he couldn't follow through. Of all the people, of all his favorite things about home, he missed Steve the most.

Sometimes, though not often, Bucky would drift into a nightmare he could never quite remember, save for snippets and flashes. The spray of dirt as bullets and bombs rained down…garbled shouts and muffled screams…the feeble frame of a soldier too small to have been allowed to fight. Each time he had a nightmare, Bucky snapped awake, certain he'd been shouting or thrashing, but a quick glance at his pen-mates proved either he hadn't been or no one cared.

Once a day, a guard would come by one of the cages, take out a key, and select a captive, dragging him out by the arm. One of the first times this happened, the captive asked the guard where he was going. "It's your lucky day," said the guard in a thick German accent. "You're a vital component in today's modern science breakthrough."

Those taken in the name of science never returned.

Each day, the men were given stale bread and a single ration of water in tin cups. After their meager meals, they were herded in single file, chains clamped and rubbing sores around their wrists, into a vast room packed with machinery. Fires glowed red behind grates and cast plumes of steam billowing upwards in swirls. Here, the men were made to manufacture parts for all sorts of weaponry and vehicles. Orders just specific enough were shouted, but not enough to decipher their purposes. The work was monotonous and brutal. Fine powdered soot clung to whatever it landed on—a black dusting over metallic tools and tables, smudging thick black streaks across the sweaty faces of the captive soldiers. Red and black rimmed the eyes of many soldiers, enhancing the exhaustion and dreariness they felt to the marrows of their bones. A balcony edged the massive room, and stationed every few feet was a Hydra soldier standing guard with a gun at the ready. Some could ignore their overbearing presence, but most continually glanced up, watching with a weary eye. Those who weren't furtive about it got a gun or two pointed at them.

**. . .**

**Over** the course of several weeks, breathing became difficult. Soot settled in everyone's lungs and sinuses, and no matter how often they coughed, they couldn't rid their system of the accumulated powder. Almost immediately, a few fell ill. That's when people started being taken for experimentation. It was almost an immediate response. You fall ill, you get taken. And for the guards, all they needed was for a prisoner to start coughing a little too often, to look a little too exhausted. When every breath burned like acid in your lungs and along your throat, hiding an illness was all too difficult.

Bucky kept his head down as he worked, hammering away at a metal sheet. His hands had become so callused that he no longer noticed new cuts made by the sharp edges. At first he had attempted to keep his mouth covered with his shirt as he worked, but it kept slipping and obstructed his breathing even more.

Night was worse. As soon as Bucky laid down, it seemed his lungs caught fire, consuming any breath, and cast him into a frenzy of coughing. Smothering it with his hands only meagerly muffled the deep, brackish rattling. More than anything, he felt as though he were suffocating. Between coughing bouts, Bucky lay limp, breathing rapid and shallow breaths. An ever-intensifying ache pulsed through his limbs. Sweat pooled along his hairline, though chills scraped over his skin.

Someone shuffled in his peripheral vision, and Bucky made the smallest motion to glance in his comrade's direction. He tried to, but couldn't, focus on the man's face. The man moved his mouth, and a low swirl of syllables lapsed over him. It wasn't until Bucky was almost unconscious that he heard…_Hang in there, Buck._

**. . .**

**As** he pounded metal, Bucky tried to focus on anything other than his complete physical misery. Each breath triggered an ache in his lungs, urging him to cough. Each breath felt like breathing in gallons of water. The floor lurched beneath him, and Bucky clutched the edge of the workbench, taking a moment to steady his spinning vision.

"Hang in there, Buck."

He looked to his left and the soldier beside him gave him a weary smile.

"Fight it, brother. They're watching." His eyes flicked to the Hydra guards.

Bucky chanced a glance before shoving away from the table. "I'll do what I can."

His exhaustion screamed for him to stop moving, to simply collapse where he stood. But each second he remained standing was another second he'd successfully hid his illness. Just one more second…so was his mantra, the beat that propelled him onward until the guards lined them up, shackled their wrists, and herded them back to their pens like stock.

**. . .**

**The** ratting of keys jangled Bucky from a light sleep. Boots clomped to a slow march through the concrete hall. When the guard stepped into view, he was practically silhouetted in the low light. He walked with a straight back and firm shoulders—almost mechanized. Only his head was turned ever so slightly to the side so that he could peer into each cage of men as he passed, assessing which lamb to take to slaughter. Bucky watched him, his grey-blue eyes steeled and unblinking beneath his straight eyebrows. The guard seemed almost bored as he walked past potential victims. He reached the end of the row, peered in through the bars, and flicked his gaze over each miserable face. One of Bucky's comrades looked away from the guard and looked to Bucky instead. The fear and concern on his face showed what the both knew. Bucky tried to force his cracked lips into a smirk, but merely obtained a small twitch. He trained his eyes on the guard once more, though it seemed to consume all his energy to do so.

The guard eyed Bucky and sneered. "You. You're the lucky one today." With a swift flick of the wrist, he'd unhooked the keys from his hip and selected the key to unlock the door. Each pen-mate scurried aside when the door screeched on its hinges. The guard sauntered in. Bucky remained cold and stoic.

"Get up.

Bucky didn't even blink.

The guard clamped his hand around Bucky's arm, digging his fingers into his flesh as he hoisted him to his feet. Bucky's free hand coiled into a fist. The guard attempted to drag Bucky forward, but he held his ground. Weak as he was, Bucky was going to put up a fight. When the guard turned back to face him, Bucky loosed his fist into the guard's jaw. The guard staggered back a step or two, and Bucky took his chance to attack further.

Another collision to the jaw sent the guard to the ground. Bucky knelt over him, grunting with the exertion of each punch. He hadn't heard the trampling of fellow Hydra soldiers coming to save their comrade. Bucky released a final jab to the bloodied guard's cheek, and the guard's skull slammed against the concrete floor. He didn't move. Bucky was still flailing when the other guards pulled him back. He tried hooking his feet behind his captives' legs to bring them to the ground, but he was unsuccessful. His voice had quickly gone raw from screaming such guttural and feral sounds. Blood trickled over his chin from the split in his dried lips. There was a sharp prick and a dull throbbing in is neck. In his peripheral vision, Bucky could see the fine needle's point pulling away from his neck. Sluggishness consumed him, rusting his limbs and dulling his mind. Still he fought, but his flailing had given way to sporadic twitching. He tried to continue to yell, but it came out in dull mumblings.

The shadows on the walls began playing tricks with his mind. At one point, he was certain Steve was running along side him, urging him to not give up. Bucky tried to tell him that he was so tired, but it came out as a low moan caught in his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

**The** 107th had traipsed through the night with their wrists chained together. Soldiers linked together, each a link in the line of the grim and hopeless. Bucky kept his head down as they walked, but he assessed the Hydra soldiers shepherding them. They didn't speak. Their masks dehumanized them. Their movements seemed robotic. Their guns were at the ready, always aimed at one of Bucky's men. The private stumbling along in front of Bucky hand't stopped whimpering the whole night. Bucky could hardly blame him. He'd seen his friend, another private under Bucky's command, be disintegrated by the white blue weaponized energy. He'd wished the private would quiet, though. It was distracting as he tried to decipher how these new weapons differed from their own. Had they stolen one of Howard Stark's designs?

The private's foot hooked on to a root, and he lunged forward with a cry. He lay, covered in dirt, sobbing. One of the Hydra shepherds shouted at him. When he didn't stand, the Hydra soldier hit him with the butt of his rifle. Bucky ran forward, putting himself between the two just in time to receive the full force of the second battering from the rifle. The cold metal caught him on the temple, and blood trickled over his cheek. Black spots popped in his vision. The Hydra soldier shouted at Bucky, who helped his private back to his feet.

"Alright, there, Jamison?" The private nodded. "Yeah? Ok. Just keep going forward. We'll be alright."

The last half hour of their walk, they were all blindfolded with rough cuts of cloth that wouldn't be removed until they were being shoved into their prisons.

The cage door slammed and Bucky immediately threw himself at the bars. His perfectly coifed hair had fallen loose in strands framing his eyes. "Hey! Dirty pustule!" Bucky cocked a grin when the pock-faced guard faced him once more. But his fury was stronger than his mild amusement, and his grin slipped into a glare. "Come join me in here and I'll show you true justice."

"You want justice?" asked the guard. He pulled out a gun, cocked it, and pulled the trigger in one fluid motion. Jamison, who was standing beside Bucky, slumped against the bars grasping his stomach. Glimmering black blood flooded over his fingers and dribbled over his lips. He stared up at Bucky with genuine fear and confusion before falling to the floor.

Bucky attacked the bars with new vigor. Words blended with screaming. "I will tear you limb from limb! Gouge out your eyeballs and make you sip them through a straw! Your own mother won't be able to recognize your remains!"

The guard shoved open the door and heaved Bucky face first into the bars, pinning his arm behind his back. Bucky hooked his foot behind the guard's ankle and pulled. The guard fell and Bucky launched at him with flailing fists.

The two of them were only briefly locked in a whirl of arms and feet before the pock-faced guard managed to escaped and pin Bucky down by straddling his torso. Bucky didn't have time to breathe or react before the guard's fist came barreling down on his jaw, and again, and again. Exhaustion and pain flooded his veins, blurred his vision, and stole his breath. The more he strained against the guard, the more like rubber he felt until he couldn't take it any more. The guard's fist slammed once more into the side of Bucky's now swollen face and snapped his skull back against the concrete floor.

**. . .**

"**Welcome** back to the land of the living, number 23557. You almost didn't make it. But I assure you, you are in capable hands."

Bucky's bleary gaze focused on a small man with bug-eyed glasses covering his face. His focus fogged and Bucky tried to lift a hand to rub his eyes, but discovered his wrists were tethered down. He tested his legs and found the same to be true for them.

"Don't fret. The binds are there only for your protection." The bug-eyed man checked the charts then cradled them in his arms and tutted. "It seems you are not ready for the experimentation. Pity. But one more bout of treatment and you should be fine." He nodded to an assistant who unsheathed a needle, filled it with clear liquid, and plunged it into his arm. Before being dragged back into a drugged sleep, Bucky could hear the small man say, "He will not be like the others. He must be back to full health or else the experimentation will kill him."

**. . .**

**Bucky** knocked on the door and watched the light snow drift on the breeze as he waited.

"Come in," shouted a muffled voice. "It's unlocked."

"Bucky smiled and pushed his way in through the front door. "You know, you might not want to announce that. I could be anybody."

"As if a Nazi spy would be knocking on my door," answered Steve, still muffled.

"You never know." Bucky looked around the small living room, bookshelves dotted with photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Rogers and little baby Steve. There was even one that included ten-year-old Bucky from the last round of family portraits. Mrs. Rogers had always treated him as though he were her own. "Where are you?"

"I'm almost ready." Steve came hurrying from his bedroom tucking his sketchbook into his satchel. When he looked up, Bucky saw a cut puffing up Steve's lower lip.

Bucky sighed. "What happened this time?"

Steve shook his head and shrugged on his coat. "Nothing."

"That cut says otherwise."

Steve did up the buttons on his coat and loosely wrapped a scarf around his neck. "I handled it, alright?"

Bucky nodded and raised his eyebrows. "So what'd the other guy look like? Did you give him a nice shiner and a limp?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "We're gonna be late for our drawing class."

"We have plenty of time.." Bucky grinned at a sudden thought, "Unless you were hoping to catch a glimpse of that cute photography dame we met yesterday."

"Dame? Must you talk about her like that?"

Bucky laughed and ushered Steve outside. "Come on then, Romeo."

The walk was quick, despite the December chill. The whole time, Steve spoke excitedly about the evolution of motion pictures. "I'm telling you, Buck, they're on to something great! Can you imagine being transported to another time just by watching a story unfold on a screen? It's brilliant! And they're already making great technological advancements. I wonder what they'll think of in another decade or two."

Bucky laughed. "Maybe you should consider doing something with film for a career. You could be the one to revolutionize the industry."

Steve shook his head. "Nah. I'm more than content to sit back and watch."

They climbed the steps and stomped the snow from their shoes on the door mat. After a few hallways, they turned the corner to their classroom and Steve ran into a small redheaded woman with a bag slung over her shoulder. Bucky hung back and watched them exchange apologies and claim blame. Steve fumbled with his words, and his cold-pinked cheeks turned half a shade pinker. The woman was that photography dame. She was hardly taller than Steve and kept her hair in a bob. Watching them stand there exchanging awkward glances and mumbling was quickly growing old. If Steve didn't know how to flirt with her, it was Bucky's responsibility to show him. Besides, she looked almost in physical pain to be stuck in this failed conversation with him.

Bucky tugged his jacket straight and smoothed his already smooth coif before standing at Steve's side. "Hey again! Funny how we keep running into each other."

She smiled pleasantly. "Fancy that."

"You know, we were severely lacking in models yesterday. You sure you don't want to join us?" He flashed her his boyish grin. "Maybe after class we could go dancing?"

Her cheeks tinged pink. "That's kind of you, but I don't dance."

He nodded. "Alright. Maybe hot chocolate's more your style. I make a fantastic hot chocolate."

"Maybe some other time. I have to go." She glanced at Steve. "Goodbye." Her shoulder brushed against Bucky's arm as she walked away.

He watched her leaved with eyebrows raised. "Huh." He licked his lower lip and clapped Steve on the shoulder. "I think she likes you better."

**. . .**

**A** persistent beeping stabbed Bucky's brain, sending steady waves of nausea pulsing through his body, concentrating in the center of his stomach. His eyes grated against the inside of his lids like sandpaper. The muscles in his extremities ached with the numbness of inactivity. Curling his fingers felt like flexing them for the first time. They moved in juttering, creaking twitches, stiff and slow. Bucky groaned and let his head drop to the side. A flash of light sparked a white fire over his eyelids and he hissed inwardly and grimaced.

"It seems our patient's fever has broken. Now that he is cured of his pneumonia, the real work can start."

Bucky forced his eyes open to look at his surroundings. The same small man who stuck him with a needle before was scribbling notes on a clipboard. He clicked the pen and watched Bucky through his bottle-glasses.

"Ah! Perfect timing. The specimen is awake. Prep him." His white lab coat fluttered as he spun towards the silver table.

Cold hands poked and prodded and rubbed, tugging at Bucky's sleeves and unbuttoning the collar of his undershirt. All attempts to pull away were prohibited by the leather buckles still around his wrists and ankles. While one hand rubbed a freezing cotton swab laden with alcohol over his neck, another plunged a syringe into a bottle and drew a dose of more clear liquid. They pushed out any air bubbles and stuck it into the cleaned section of his neck. More hands stuck metal circles and wires to his temples. No one spoke. The only sounds in the room were Bucky's rapid breathing and a scraping and ting of metal on metal. The small man traded his clip board for a large syringe loaded with cobalt blue liquid. He stood beside Bucky, a look of pure excitement filling his round face.

"I rarely do these things myself—not after the first forty failed. But you…you seem different. I am very curious to see what happens to you."

Bucky only glared and pulled against the restraints.

"If you struggle, it will only hurt more."

And it did.

Whatever had been pumped into his veins seemed to be mercurial fire and battery acid, immediately boiling his blood. His back arched with the overwhelming pain, and for a moment nothing existed beyond the fire. Then everything subsided.

Sweat pearled and dripped in rivulets over his face and down his neck, pooling along his collar bone. His breaths came in unsteady gasps, still ragged. The doctors blurred and refocused in the overexposed lighting. His limbs seemed to vibrate, and he still couldn't move them.

"That was just the first dose. You'll have the other in a month…if you survive that long." The mad doctor pried open Bucky's eyelid, shining a small flashlight as his iris. "Quick response of the pupils, but they slide from focus." He checked the other eye just to be certain. His fingers then prodded along the left side of Bucky's neck. After a few moments, the doctor stuck his fingers inside Bucky's mouth and pulled at his lip to better assess the teeth. As the doctor tried to shove open Bucky's jaw, Bucky bit down hard.

The mad doctor screamed and tried to pull away, but Bucky wouldn't let go. One of the assistants ran up and landed a hard jab to the cheekbone, and Bucky let go. The doctor examined his hand. "You have much to learn, number 23557."

"My name…is James…Buchanan…Barnes."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's note:**__ Sorry it took so long for this segment! It needed some serious work before I posted it. But I hope you all like the story so far! I know I'm excited, but that's just me. If you are enjoying the story, feel free to let me know. I've rarely shared my writing with the public, so feedback in the form of comments, likes, follows, whatever are all very welcome and encouraging. But even if you don't do those things, I'm still so very glad you've taken the __time to read what I've written. _

**_. . ._**

**A** week had passed since the United States joined the war. Bucky and Steve had immediately traipsed into the recruiting office and filled out the paperwork required to sign up. They'd gone up to the counter together once everything was filled in, Bucky passing his papers over first. The clerk had peered at Steve with a mix of disbelief and entertainment. The stamp was in his hand before the papers left Steve's fingers, pre-plunged in red ink. "You can't be serious, kid," he'd said. The stamp pounded down with a hollow thump. "You'd be sent home in a body bag before you even left camp."

Bucky watched Steve's expression harden. "With all due respect, sir, I'm a dedicated worker. I can accomplish any goal I set for myself. All you have to do is give a chance to—"

"To what? To have an asthma attack and suffocate to death? To fall and risk the lives of your comrades who refuse to leave you behind?"

"Anyone can fall, sir," Bucky interjected.

The clerk had turned to Bucky with a glare. "Was I speaking to you, son?"

"No, sir. But you were using false logic to justify denying my friend here admittance."

"Leave it alone, Bucky. It's okay." Steve said, putting his hand on Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky licked his lower lip and turned away. Steve slowly followed behind.

It hadn't taken long for to Bucky receive his acceptance letter. All he had to do now was tell Steve the news. The envelope was tucked safely into the inner pocket of his jacket, and it seemed to burn into his side the longer he waited. It commanded his attention throughout the day; not even the gorgeous brunette drawing model could capture his gaze. Instead, he'd sat the class with his pencil poised above the paper, marked with a few coarse strokes, and stared at the frost-framed window.

"Come on, Bucky. Class is over," said Steve. "What's wrong? You've been distracted all day."

Bucky shut his sketchbook with the pencil marking the page. He plunged his hand into his jacket and pulled out the envelope. "I've been accepted, Steve. I'm going to war."

Steve nodded. "Congratulations. Though I didn't have any doubt." Steve snapped his own sketchbook closed and jammed it into his satchel. He took extra care looping the leather strap through the buckle and hooking it closed.

"I'm supposed to report for duty in one week. I get my assignment tomorrow."

Steve nodded again. "I was declined two more times."

"Really, Steve?" Bucky ran his hand through his dark hair. "You're breaking the law now, lying on government forms? What are you trying to prove?"

Steve glared at the table. "It's my choice if I want to live or die for this country. To decide to fight for what's right and good. I have the same right as you to join the army."

"But you don't have to be a soldier to do those things, Steve. There are other ways you can make a difference."

Steve shot a glare at Bucky. "And how's that? By towing a little red wagon behind me as I salvage scrap metal?"

Bucky's jaw clenched. "I know you can handle yourself. Alright? You've got to be one of the scrappiest guys I know. But you've also got to be smart in choosing your fights. What are you gonna do? Fight the entire US army to get to Europe?" He stood and flipped up the collar on his coat. He loosed a small sigh. "I'm not gonna stop you. If you wanna put in five applications to five recruiting centers using five aliases, be my guest. I'll be the supportive best friend you've always had. I just wanted you to know that you don't need to prove anything to anyone. Because it doesn't matter what those recruiters say. You are good enough."

Steve smiled and shrugged on his coat. "Thanks, Bucky."

**. . .**

**For** the third day in a row, Bucky lay strapped to what appeared to be a modified orthodontics chair, fully reclined. A clear lightbulb hung above his face, burning into his retinas. But to close his eyes would show weakness. Bucky would not allow this insane man—Zola, he'd been informed—any amount of gratification.

"Why do you resist? You have been given this opportunity of a lifetime. Embrace it," Zola said as he approached the table. He waited, but Bucky remained silent and unflinching, staring straight ahead. Zola stood over him. "I will push you to the limits, and push you beyond until you break. Whether you wish it or not, you will fulfill your potential." He backed away. "Let's start again with a simple question. Who are you?"

"My name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th regiment. I grew up in Brooklyn, New York—"

"Wrong."

A pulse of electricity vibrated through Bucky's body, cutting short any thought. He was breathing jagged breaths by the time it stopped.

"I will ask you again and again for as long as it takes. Who are you?"

There was a moment before Bucky could get his lips to move enough to form words. "M-m-my name is James B-buchanan Barnes of the 107th—" Another shot of electricity wracked his body. His fingers curled in on themselves. His toes dug into his boots. His teeth cut into the edge of his tongue, filling his mouth with the metal tang of blood. After the pulse died, he turned his head and spat at Zola the best he could, covering the floor in a red spray.

A burly man with guns strapped to his hip lunged forward and jabbed his fist against Bucky's cheek. "That's is enough." Zola had stopped the man from loosing another punch. Bucky felt the welt already rising, swelling in around his left eye. Zola stepped closer. "You are not a man. No name belongs to you. All you are now is Experiment 23557. That is the only designation you will have. Save yourself time and pain…accept your fate." Zola adjusted his glasses. "Now. What is your name?"

The words came slower still and thick on his bleeding tongue. "Mmm name…isss…J-j-james…B-buchanan…Barnes."

**. . .**

**The** bare lightbulb flickered to life, but it hardly registered to Bucky. His bruised face lolled to the side, and he watched the bleary form of Zola walk towards him. A moan caught in his throat, degenerating into a gurgle. Zola injected another shot into his now bruised neck, and Bucky flinched away. His heart raced, head spun, and stomach lurched. He would have vomited, but he didn't even have a drop of black acid left to spew.

"It's time to wake up, 23557. Your lessons must resume." Hands set to work, hooking him up to the usual array of wires. Someone flipped a switch by his head, and the machine whirred to life. Electricity hummed, and Bucky began breathing in erratic breaths. "If all goes well this week, you'll be getting your next dose of serum." Zola made some quick notes. "I must admit. Your progress has been a bit slow for my liking, but you have gone further than any of the others." He set down his clipboard. "As usual, let's start with the simple question. Who are you?"

For a moment it seemed as though Bucky hadn't heard. He only lay there staring unseeing at the bare lightbulb. Then his lips moved soundlessly, trying to form words. Finally he managed a murmur. When Zola didn't respond, he tried again. "B-barnes." The word was little more than a whisper.

Zola sighed. "Just a small zap," he said to his assistant standing beside the machine. Electricity pulsed through the wires and into Bucky's exhausted body. He didn't even brace for it this time. "Once more, 23557. Who are you?"

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye and mixed with the cold sweat beading at his hairline. "2…3…5…" He swallowed. "Barnes."

"You have had the same answer for a week. Each time you answer incorrectly, you have been punished with an electric shock. Your body can only take so much more, you know. And you have come so much further than the others. Perhaps we should employ alternate methods." Zola looked to the guard standing by the door and flagged him over. "Hold back just enough." The guard pulled back and released a left hook to Bucky's stomach. "There is no James Buchanan Barnes." A right hook to the stomach. "He is only a man you once knew." A jab to the cheek, drawing a droplet of blood just below his eye. "You are only known as 23557." A jab to the jaw split the corner of his lip. "23557. Repeat." The guard pulled back for another hit, but Zola stopped him.

Bucky coughed and wheezed for breath. It was several moments before he could say anything. "23..55..7."

"Good. Now we're getting somewhere. Again."

"…23557."

"Keep repeating that to yourself. I'll be back to check on you in a bit."

"23557." His head fell to the side once more, and he watched Zola leave. "23557." The iron door shut behind him. "Barnes."

**. . .**

"**Listen**, Steve. I'm heading out in the morning. Come with me to the Stark Expo. I hear he's revealing something pretty big. I even got us dates." It was Bucky's last night home on leave. He'd finished basic training at camp and was heading off for Europe the next morning.

Steve shrugged. "I dunno, Bucky. The Expo's fine, but a date? I'm sure I'd ruin everything."

Bucky sat back in the chair across from Steve. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You know that cute brunette model from class?" Steve nodded. "She said she's got a cute blonde friend." Steve hung his head. "What? Were you hoping for…what's her name? Aspen?"

Steve smirked. "A cute blonde will do just fine."

Bucky smiled as well. "Great! Better get cleaned up. We're picking them up in half an hour."

Right on time, they were standing on the dimly lit porch, waiting for someone to answer the door. Bucky tipped his sergeant's cap to the side and grinned eagerly at Steve, who looked as though he might be sick. Bucky laughed and elbowed him in the arm. "Smile. Have fun. You'll be fine."

Behind the closed door sounded a few giggles followed by a hissing _shh!_ The door swung open, revealing the brunette with her friend standing behind her. "Hiya, Bucky!" Even her voice seemed to sparkle.

"Hiya yourself." His grin was crooked, the same goofy grin he flashed whenever he was trying to be charming. The girl grinned even wider and her cheeks deepened half a shade of rose. "You gals ready for some fun?"

The brunette looped her arm around Bucky's, looking at him as though he were the most important person in her life. "I'll go wherever you lead, Sergeant Barnes." All four of them traipsed down the road hunting for a taxi and splashing in the puddles from the spring rain earlier in the day.

Bucky turned and saw a cab heading their way and whistled for it. The cabbie pulled to the side of the road and they scrambled in. Bucky went first. The brunette insisted on sitting on his lap. Steve squished in next to Bucky, and his date got the window seat. Bucky grinned at Steve, who could only manage a sickly grimace. The brunette grabbed his cap from his head and placed it on her own with a mad giggle. Bucky laughed as well, but returned his attention back to Steve who was watching the blonde stare out the window. Steve rummaged in his pocket, fished out a stick of gum, and tried to offer it to the blonde. She ignored Steve, trying to turn further away from him. Steve shoved the gum back into his pocket and fidgeted with the zipper pull in his jacket. The brunette landed a fluttering kiss on Bucky's neck, regaining his full attention.

After a while, the group clambered out of the cab. As they all gained their bearings, Bucky plopped his cap back on his head. Steve rubbed his neck and shuffled his feel while the blonde crossed her arms and watched the crowd rushing towards the expo. Her friend skipped over to her, and Bucky walked over to Steve, dropping his arm over Steve's bony shoulders.

"You gotta breathe, Stevie." Bucky laughed. The girls traipsed ahead, and Bucky ushered Steve to follow. "It's a date, not an execution."

"I know, but look at me, Bucky. I'm not exactly desirable."

Steve had his hands jammed into his pockets. From this angle, Bucky could see a bit of Steve's black suspenders peeking out from under the pucker of his beige jacket. A strand of his gold hair flopped over his forehead, and his blue eyes seems to glow in the light of the expo. Bucky tightened his grip around Steve, jostling him a little, and sighed. "You're too critical of yourself, Stevie. Just promise me you'll try to have fun, alright?"

Steve nodded. "Whatever you say, Buck."


	4. Chapter 4

**Explosions** rattled the windows and echoed through the halls. Zola came running into the room and began shoving papers and bottles—anything he could grab—into his bag. In his frenzy, some beakers tipped off the table and shattered on the floor, leaving shards in a mess of multicolored liquids.

"Sir? What's going on?" one of the assistants asked.

"Save the data! Get out of here! The prisoners are fighting back!"

Bucky hardly registered there were other people in the room, but at the sound of Zola's voice he began reciting his designation in a slow, monotonous tone.

The explosions grew louder, and the lab assistants dropped everything and ran through the door. "Cowards!" screamed Zola. "I'll do everything myself!" But as the explosions drew even closer and grew even louder with less time between, Zola became anxious and fled the room himself. Still Bucky recited his designation, watching the bare lightbulb keeping time to the beat of bombs.

"23557…."

"Bucky?"

"…Barnes…"

"Bucky? Bucky, come on." The man's hands set to work undoing the leather buckles and straps.

The soft touch didn't register against Bucky's numbed nerves. The man's voice trickled into his consciousness, though, and pulled him from his catatonic state. Strong arms pulled him to a sitting position, and he swayed, dizzy from the now unfamiliar sensation. Bucky's vision was blurry and stared disbelieving at the face before him. "Steve?" A weak smile broke over his cracked lips.

"I thought you were dead," he said.

Bucky watched this man pull the wires from his temples, scattering them across the floor. Something was wrong. This man sounded like Steve, and he resembled Steve, but it was as though someone had plastered his face onto another man's body. This had to be a dream. Steve was his tiny best friend who was stuck in New York because the army refused to take him. The arms around him, dragging him to his feet, felt real enough. He clung tighter so he wouldn't fall, and a familiar smell sent his mind to the comfort of home. Memories of Steve smiling, of rescuing Steve, of countless hours at Steve's apartment flooded his mind. That was Steve's cologne. The same drug store cologne he'd always used. This man was real, and he was Steve.

"I thought you were smaller." They took one step, Bucky leaning heavily on Steve. "What happened?"

"I joined the army."

"You must have had one hell of a drill sergeant." Bucky winced, unused to standing on his feet. His legs shook with the weight of his body. "You really don't know," he grunted, "when to walk away from a fight."

Steve laughed. "Somehow this just seemed important."

Bucky laughed, but it came out as more of a wheeze. "You missed me that much?"

Steve smirked. "I've got more pressing matters at the moment. You're just lucky I came."

"Yeah. I'm glad you didn't listen to me when I told you to stop applying." Walking and breathing were slowly becoming easier. With each step, Bucky was able to support more of his own weight.

The more they walked, the more chaos they encountered. Hydra soldiers and escaped prisoners alike ran in all directions. Only a few were actively participating in battle, aiming for the enemy. Some fired shots sporadically over their shoulders. Others screeched with the bloodlust of battle.

"Get down!" someone called, and Steve shoved Bucky to the ground, covering both of them with a spangled shield. Debris crashed around them. When it was safe, Steve stood and pulled Bucky to his feet. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He took a step on his own and nearly fell forward. Steve leapt forward to catch him, but Bucky waived him away. "I'm good. I got this."

Concern creased Steve's forehead. "This could get dangerous."

Bucky heaved a dry laugh. "Yeah. I know." He tried standing as straight was possible. "I'm going with you."

. . .

**The** playground was littered with kids screaming in a huddle. Little Bucky Barnes, only seven at the time, went running to see what all the fuss was about. At the core of the huddle were two boys, both blonde. The smaller of the two looked as though he were made of wire and tissue paper, ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. Tears pooled in his eyes, threatening to fall, but he had his hands raised and ready to strike. The larger boy was laughing.

"You gonna cry because you know it's true! Your momma is unfaithful. She's gonna burn in Hell for her sins. My momma told me so."

"My momma loves my dad! She has no sins to burn for!"

"You're proof enough for her sins. Why else would a good person end up with a son like you?"

The little boy screamed as he lunged forward. The other stopped him with a fist to the cheek. But that wasn't enough. He advanced on the smaller boy, shoving him against the fence and kicking him in the shins. All the while, he was chanting, "cry baby." The kids in the crowd were either laughing or watching on in fear. The larger boy pulled his arm back for another strike, and Bucky lunged forward, tackling him. It was easier than shoving open the gym door.

"What's your problem?"

"What's _my _problem?" Bucky shouted. The boy was standing again and wiping dirt from his face. "What's _your _problem? What did he ever do to you?"

The kid shuffled his feet uncertainly. "He's weird. He looks like a kindergarten baby."

"Who cares what he looks like? I think you look like a pig, but I'm not gonna pound ya for it!" At this, the kid smirked. "But I will if I have to."

"I'm calling your bluff. I don't think you have the guts t—" Bucky silenced him with a fist to the mouth. The kid was stunned for a moment before he exploded into wails and tears. He turned and ran. The crowd of kids quickly dispersed.

Bucky turned to the small boy and was surprised to see he was glaring at him. "I could have taken him by myself."

Bucky nodded. "But you didn't have to."

The boy pursed his lips. "Thanks, I suppose." He seemed to deliberate over something before sticking out his hand. "I'm Steve."

"Bucky," he said as he shook his hand. "Hey, do you wanna play a game? Over the summer, I learned this really cool trick with marbles. I can show you if you like."

Steve grinned. "Sure! Wanna go to my house? My momma made cookies."

. . .

**The** pink and purple streaks of dawn lined the horizon, visible between the sparse trees on either side of the road. The adrenaline that fueled the uprising was beginning to wear off for most, but there was still the occasional whoop from the ranks. Each soldier had sweat, and grease, and dirt, and soot blended across their gaunt features. Those who could walk on their own shouldered guns, ready to fire at Nazi or Hydra scum alike, should there be a need. They kept time with their ragged breathing and trudging feet. The soldiers all followed Steve. Bucky recognized a few of the men who came up and thanked Captain America for leading the rescue mission, to which Steve smiled and shook their hand promising it was no problem.

"Captain America?" Bucky asked.

Steve smirked and watched his feet. "It's just a character."

"Not to these men. To them, you're a symbol—the embodiment of America. You're a hero."

"Aw c'mon, Buck. I'm no hero."

"Well…" Bucky grinned. When Steve looked away, Bucky's grin fell. He licked his lower lip, tasting the acrid tang of blood and soot. He watched yet another soldier come up to Steve. As Steve shook the man's hand, his smile filled his features, brightening the blue of his eyes. It was one of his rare, genuine smiles that Bucky usually had to coax from him. Bucky noticed how Steve still ducked his head as he nodded, a force of habit from a life of insecurities. Bucky regrouped his gun in his stiff hands and glared at the road ahead.

Finally they could see a camp on the horizon. Several of the men cheered. As they passed the first few tents, men crept out, buttoning their pants and slinging towels over their shoulders. Cries of, "It's them!" and "My God!" ran like static as more men gathered along the road to watch the procession. The crowd grew steadily louder. A new surge of energy pulsed through the ranks of survivors. Instinctively, Bucky repositioned his grip on the barrel of his rifle, eyes flitting over the crowd. Steve elbowed Bucky in the rib, making him flinch. Steve didn't notice. He was grinning at Bucky, at the crowd, and then again at Bucky. Everyone was cheering for him, talking about the great thing he'd done.

They were met at the camp's center by a gorgeous brunette with painted red lips. "You're late," she chided him with a soft English accent. Even though the soldiers had given her plenty of space, she was standing unnecessarily close to Steve. She was watching him as though she were afraid he'd disappear before her eyes.

Steve's grin was lopsided as he pulled out a radio that had been shot through. "I couldn't call my ride." They continued watching each other.

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Hey!" The crowd fell silent. "Let's hear it for Captain America!" The roar of the crowd was deafening. Steve looked around and Bucky forced a smile for his friend. It felt more like a grimace and fell flat almost immediately. After everything quieted down, Steve resumed talking with the brunette.

"The colonel will want to speak with you immediately," she said.

Steve nodded, but glanced at Bucky. "I'll be fine. I should report to the medic tent anyway."

Steve nodded again and left, following the brunette. Bucky watched him duck into a tent then stood in place a moment longer. By now, the crowd had mostly dissipated, going back to their routines. Bucky wandered the familiar dirt paths to his old tent, unsure if his things would still be there. One quick look showed his cot had been stripped but there was his trunk beside it. A label had been slapped to the top, marking it as to be shipped back to the States. He knelt down and lifted the lid. Right below his wool blanket lay his second uniform, musty but still pressed and ready to wear.

He took his time dressing, fumbling with the buttons. His fingertips still felt numb. For several minutes, he wrestled the buttons into their coordinating buttonholes. They slipped from his grip, and resisted when he pushed. He gave up with a growl, leaving the top few buttons undone. He shoved the bottom of his shirt into his waistband. It was rumpled, definitely not army regulation, but he didn't care. He needed a drink.

Bucky pushed through the crowds that gathered in the bar in the nearest village. The atmosphere of the place remained unchanged from the night before he and the other members of the 107th set out for the battlefield. Ale slopped over mugs as the men drank and sang. Women smiled at the soldiers and listened to their stories. Bucky didn't notice if anyone was paying him any attention. On the other side of the room was his target—a doorway to a smaller room. It was much quieter, less smokey, and mostly vacant. He sunk onto a stool and ordered a double whiskey. The first sip was a welcome fire, but the more he drank, the more numb his tongue felt. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. A poster on the wall caught his attention. It was Steve stuffed into his spangly Captain America costume. The words "tour cancelled" had been slapped over his chest. Who was this new Steve?

"Bucky?"

He downed the rest of his drink and signaled the bartender for a second. Steve sat down on the stool next to him. Bucky glanced at him, seeing he was now dressed in the perfectly pressed uniform according to regulations. Everything about him was clean, straight lines. The uniform fit him perfectly while hinting at the bulk of muscle lying beneath the fabric. Bucky took a drink. "Steve."

"I thought you were going to get looked at."

Bucky shook his head. "It didn't seem so important. Besides, I feel fine."

"Yeah, you look like it." Steve ordered a whiskey as well. They sat for a moment, not saying anything. Steve set his drink down with a dull thunk. "What happened, Bucky?"

He shook his head. "I don't know." He tossed back the rest of his second glass and ordered a third. He looked at Steve. "Shouldn't I be asking you that same question?"

"I already told you. I joined the army." Bucky just gave him a hard look. "I was chosen for an experiment, and I gladly accepted. It was my choice."

"I thought I told you to not do anything stupid. That was the very definition of stupid, Steve. What if something had happened to you? What if the experiment backfired?"

Steve furrowed his brow, a deep crease forming. "I'm fine, Bucky. Look at me. I've never been better."

He had the perfect physique. Muscles filling out the army-issued uniform, the strong squared jaw, broad shoulders…Bucky frowned into his glass. "I wasn't there to protect you."

"Protect me? From what? Everything about this was my choice, Bucky." Steve's tone was growing sharp.

Bucky jabbed a finger at the poster. "Including that? Dancing around on stage, performing like a chorus girl? That was your idea of joining the war?"

"It got me here, didn't it? Maybe it was a little unconventional. Maybe I didn't like the idea at first. But maybe I didn't have any other option! If I hadn't been doing that, I would have been stuck in a lab like you! And if I remember correctly, you weren't so upset when I pulled you off that table."

"I didn't think you were real!" He'd forgotten about his whiskey by now. "One month, Steve. For one month I'd been strapped to that table. For one month I'd been poked and prodded and beaten and electrocuted. I've been stuck with needles and injected with multicolored serums. I have no idea what Zola was doing to me or why. But I do know that during all that time, whenever I thought of home, you were what I thought of. My best friend."

Steve was stunned into silence. All he could do was stare at his broken friend. Usually so put together, so suave and charming, it seemed as though his nerves had become exposed. Everything that was essential to Bucky Barnes as he'd known him had become frayed. "I'm sorry, Buck," he finally said. His voice had gone rough. "I hope you can see that I'm still the same Steve you've always known."

Bucky licked his lower lip. "Yeah, well I hope so too." He slid his now empty glass back towards the bartender and walked away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Editor's Note: **I hope everyone's still enjoying the story! I know I'm having fun writing it. I'm still nervous about posting, just because I rarely share my writing with anyone but my best friend. But if you do enjoy the story, feel free to let me know in some way. Wether it be a follow, favorite, comment, or just by spreading the word to your friends, I'd greatly appreciate it! I check in on this site daily.

**. . .**

**The** sunlight filtered green through the trees, a discordant highlight against the black-clad onlookers. A maplewood coffin rested on the grass waiting to be lowered. Bucky stood beside Steve for the entire service, watching him warily from time to time. Steve remained unchanged, staring straight ahead with a stone-hard look. He kept his shoulders squared and held his head high. Bucky expected him to waver, to show even a hint of emotion, but he never did. After the ceremony, Bucky went to speak with his parents. When he turned around, Steve was gone. Dark clouds came rushing in, and the first raindrops fell on Bucky's cheek.

He found Steve rummaging in his pockets for his keys outside his apartment door. His hands were shaking. Bucky kicked over the cinderblock and picked up the spare key, holding it out to Steve. He took it but wouldn't look at Bucky.

"I looked for you afterward. With my parents. They wanted to see how you were doing."

"I didn't really feel like being around people."

Bucky nodded. "Come home with me. I'll make you some dinner. We can build a fort like we used to. My mom made some pie."

Steve finally looked up at him. "Thank you, Buck. But I can get by one my own." He tried smiling, but it didn't convince Bucky.

He knew Steve was just trying to be strong. As always, he was overcompensating for his lack of physical strength. "I know, but you don't have to." He wanted to wrap Steve in his arms, to make all the pain go away, to make him realize he didn't have to hide his emotions…to help him in some way. Instead, he clapped his hand over Steve's boney shoulder. "I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

Steve nodded and looked at his hands, not quite masking the grief breaking through. When he didn't say anything, Bucky turned to leave. "Bucky?" Steve's voice crackled a little. Bucky turned back to him. "Would you stay? Just for a little while?"

"Of course."

Steve held out the key to him, and Bucky opened the door. Steve stood in the living room, not really noticing his surroundings while Bucky pulled two glasses from the cupboard in the kitchen and popped the latch on the cabinet above the stove. That was where Steve's father had kept the brown bottles of whisky. There was one bottle left that hadn't been opened, and it was cloaked in dust. Bucky pulled it down and wrestled the cork out. He doled out a dose in each glass. Steve was still standing in the middle of the living room when Bucky handed him his glass. Steve inspected the dark liquid as though he'd never seen anything like it. Without further hesitation, he pressed the glass to his lips and tossed back the contents in one go. He grimaced and growled, but handed the glass back to Bucky. "Another," he said. Bucky handed over his own glass and retrieved the bottle from the kitchen. Steve had downed the second glass by the time he returned. Bucky refilled both and sat on the couch.

"Sit down, Steve." When he didn't respond, Bucky pulled him gently by the wrist. Steve nearly fell onto the cushion, a drop of whisky dripping over his fingers. He drank the rest of that glass as well and held it out to Bucky. He grabbed it from Steve's hand, but set it on the side table. "Slow down, Steve. The bottle's not going anywhere."

Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He didn't move or speak, and Bucky let the silence wash over them both. In that moment, Steve looked too small, too frail, to possibly exist. Even the slightest breeze could cut him. Bucky wondered how he never seemed to notice. He drank from his own glass and set it beside Steve's. Moments passed before Steve moved again, running his fingers through his hair. His eyes were rimmed red and his cheeks were damp. He glanced at Bucky and lost all composure. Bucky sat closer to him and slid an arm over his shoulder. He leaned into Bucky ever so slightly, where he let himself cry.

Bucky instinctively tensed, but relaxed after a second. Steve cried silently, but he shook all over. Bucky wondered if it had been a good idea to give him the whiskey, but he also wondered if Steve would have been able to express his grief in any way if he hadn't. In all the years they'd been friends, Steve refused to admit to any vulnerabilities. Bucky was just glad he was there for him in any way at all. Maybe he wasn't holding him quite the way he always wanted, in any circumstance he ever imagined, but they were there together.

Time ticked away, though they remained unchanged, and Steve had quieted down. His breathing evened out and became shallow, and he was now leaning against Bucky entirely. "Do you need anything?" Bucky asked. When Steve didn't answer, he looked at him. Steve had fallen asleep, and was now curled up for warmth. Bucky smiled a little and eased Steve in the other direction so that he was laying down with his head on a toss pillow. He then grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, draped it over Steve, and smoothed away the wispy bits of blonde hair from his forehead. "Goodnight, Steve."

The next morning, the grey of dawn made a feeble attempt to shine through the blue curtains. Bucky rolled onto his side, towards the couch, and saw Steve's hand dangling over the edge. Steve lay on his stomach with half his face pressed into the pillow. His pink lips were slightly parted, and a whisper of a snore sounded with each measured breath he took. Even in his sleep, Steve's brow furrowed. His long lashes brushed the top of his cheeks—dark against his grief-paled skin. A bit of Steve's bronze hair had slipped over his eyelid.

Bucky sat up, hesitated a moment, then brushed the hair away from Steve's face. The small motion sent Bucky's heart fluttering, his breathing erratic, but Steve remained asleep. Bucky's fingertips hovered over Steve's temple before he pulled his hand back. Steve huffed a small sigh. It was several moments before Bucky's pulse calmed, and he smiled at his daring. But Steve didn't seem so troubled in his sleep. The deep furrow on his brow lessened to a light crease.

Bucky resumed the position he'd held all night—back against the couch, legs outstretched, and listening to Steve sleep. He hadn't gotten much sleep himself, and even now he felt the heavy, gritty pull of drowsiness. But every time he tried for sleep, he'd ended up tossing about, dancing with sleep.

Steve's hand twitched and brushed against Bucky's arm. Without thinking, Bucky slipped his fingers between Steve's. He felt the warmth of his own palm heating the Steve's cold palm. Bucky ran the pad of his thumb over the back of Steve's hand in slow circles. Realization of what he was doing hit him, and Bucky let go.

Embarrassment and shame washed over him. If Steve ever found out…He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. His hand rested on the back of his neck while he grabbed the bottle of whiskey with the other. He drank a long pull straight from the bottle, the alcohol burning and scraping down his throat, spreading fire outward to his extremities.

**. . .**

**It** had been a week since Bucky walked back into camp. In that time, he'd been left on his own. No one requested his return to his usual duties, demanded he be looked over by the nurses, or asked him to recount his time in captivity. The men who hadn't been part of the 107th watched him pass with curiosity and wonder. They whispered when they thought he couldn't hear, and looked away when they caught him watching them in turn. He'd become isolated in a place that had become so familiar. Even Steve was giving him more space than was necessary after that first night in the bar. They'd caught each other's attention a few times, exchanged half-hearted smiles, but went their own directions. The distance was killing Bucky, more so than when he'd left Steve in the States for war. He finally had Steve there with him, but he couldn't bring himself to even speak to him. So he spent his days dodging people and spent his nights at the bar. The bartender was already handing him his daily dose of whiskey without Bucky needing to order.

Bucky sipped from his second glass of the night, fighting back the images of needles and sharp hands, and didn't react when Steve sat next to him. He wouldn't even look up from the counter he was hunched over. Steve ordered a whiskey as well.

"You know, you can't drink away your pain."

Bucky raised his glass to his lips. "I'd settle for my memories." He drank half of the remnants.

"You know I'm here for you, Bucky. You can talk to me about anything." Steve's voice was soft and tore at Bucky's stark resolve. "It'd be better than drinking to forget."

Bucky looked at Steve, the smallest smile playing at the corners of his lips. Steve seemed to belong in his US army uniform, and Bucky was having a difficult time imagining him in anything else. The man before him was the man Steve always thought himself to be. But it was the fact that Steve wouldn't need him anymore that was making this difficult. "I wish I could."

"Just this once, let me be there for you, Bucky. Please."

Bucky nodded and ran his thumb over the rim of his glass. "I was going to die in there, Steve. I knew it and accepted it. At first I fought—who wouldn't? But it got bad." Bucky clenched his jaw. "I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes…" his voice broke. "I can see their faces. Feel their needles, feel the electricity pulling and twisting every fiber of my muscles. I can't escape it." He hung his head, hiding his fear and shame.

Steve was quiet a moment. He hadn't touched the drink cradled in his hands. "I'm sorry." He watched Bucky carefully, seeing the creases beneath his unkempt fringe. "I wish I could have been there with you—front of the line."

Bucky smirked wryly and glanced at Steve. "That would have been a sight. I thought about it a few times."

"Yeah?"

"You've always been stronger than me. I admire you for that." Bucky left a thin layer of liquid at the bottom of his glass. He swirled it around the corners of the glass before sliding it back to the bartender.

"If I was so strong, how come I always needed you to bail me out?" Steve finally took a small sip from his glass. "Without you looking out for me, I probably would have died…a few times. I just don't know when to walk away."

Bucky shrugged away his comment. "You were just too easy of a target. Someone needed to tell those kids that."

"I mean it, Bucky. I don't know where I'd be without you." He swallowed and hunched over the counters. "That's what makes this difficult." Bucky watched Steve with a crinkled brow. "I can only ask, and I'd completely understand if you said no…"

"Just say what you need."

Steve looked at Bucky with the same respect and admiration he always had. "I'm going after Hydra. The Red Skull needs to be stopped, and I'd like you to go with me. I've already got the go-ahead to build my own team."

Bucky loosed a long breath and ran his hand through his hair. "Captain America needs my help?"

"No, but Steve Rogers does. Look, I know it's a lot to ask—especially after what you've been through. But I'm not sure I can do it without my best friend watching my back."

Bucky smirked and shifted closer to Steve. "Hey. You know I'd follow Steve Rogers anywhere."

Steve grinned. "Yeah?"

"Absolutely." He pointed to the poster. "You're not keeping the suit, are you?"

"Well…It is kinda growing on me." His grin widened.

"Sorry to interrupt, boys, but I've been looking everywhere for you, Steve." It was that gorgeous brunette, but tonight she was clad in a form-fitting red dress with the lipstick to match. Precisely the type of girl Bucky would while away the time with. Both of them stood as the woman approached. Bucky made a half-hearted attempt to discreetly straighten his shirt. Steve stood a little too straight and allowed a little too much fear to show on his face. He looked as though he might run away if she took another step towards him.

"You were looking for me?" He cleared his throat.

Bucky puffed out his chest a little, holding his shoulders back. "Hello, ma'am." His tone exuded charm, but he cringed at the words. Ma'am? Was she his school teacher? "The names's Sargent James Buchannan Barnes." He flashed her the toothy, crooked, boyish grin he'd perfected over the years. "Or Bucky, if you'd rather."

"You are to report to the Colonel in the morning. He wants to start going over your plans for taking down Hydra in further detail." She didn't even spare a glance at Bucky. Rather, he dark brown eyes danced over Steve's form, memorizing the curves of his face. Her eyes lingered a little too long on his lips before looking up into his eyes.

Steve seemed to relax a tiny bit. "Another meeting with the Colonel? Don't you ever have fun?" An uncertain grin betrayed Steve's lingering nerves.

The corner of her painted lips twitched upward in a seductive smirk. "What would be the point when there's work to be done?"

"How 'bout I take you dancing? I'm sure I could help you forget about work for a while." Bucky didn't even bother adding a grin to his statement, knowing he was practically invisible. A hint of a sharp tone edged his words.

"I'm waiting for the right dance partner." It was the first time she'd even remotely acknowledged Bucky had spoken, and she still stared up at Steve as she spoke.

Steve had backed up to the barstool, clutching the edge so he wouldn't stumble backward, but he smiled down at the woman. There was confidence in that smile that Bucky hadn't seen before. With pursed lips, Bucky looked at the woman then back to Steve. He felt he was intruding on a private moment. The woman eyed Steve's lips again. Steve's gaze had softened to wonder and admiration as he smiled at her. Steve held nothing back. Bucky looked at his feet, focusing on keeping his breathing even, though a small lump in his throat was trying to choke him. He ignored the next few moments of their conversation and looked up only when the woman turned to leave. As she walked past, Bucky rushed to waive goodbye and force a fake smile. Steve watched her go with a lustful expression. "It's like I'm invisible. No, it's worse. I'm turning into you." Bucky sank back onto his barstool.

Steve joined him again. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that I'm off my game."


	6. Chapter 6

**Bucky** crossed his arms as he watched Steve pace before his team. Specs of sweat dotted his hairline as he tried to find the right words. Bucky smiled to himself. Perhaps the serum hadn't changed much after all. Steve pressed his palms together, settling to stand centered before the group. He hooked his thumbs around his belt buckle and cleared his throat. Everyone watched him patiently.

Steve inhaled. "You were each selected for a reason. You all know what Hydra and the Red Skull are capable of. And while you've each got talent and skill to rival the best, we've got a lot more to work on. Because Red Skull's not resting. He-"

"Steve." Bucky's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

He turned to Bucky, confusion creasing his face. "Yes?"

"Look at us." He spread his arms wide in front of the team. "We're already with you, so stop trying to convince us. Alright?" Bucky clapped his hand on Steve's shoulder. "Let's just shoot some guns."

Dugan wahooed and others cheered or laughed. Metallic clicks preceded gunshot blasts, echoing against the mountain side. The sound rang sharp and short. In general, the men weren't terrible marksmen. At least they could hit a target. Bucky recrossed his arms as he stood beside Steve, watching the practice.

"Well?" said Steve.

Bucky crinkled his brow. "Well what?"

"Show me what you've got."

Bucky leaned back into his laugh. "Wait," he sobered when Steve hadn't laughed along. "You're seriously telling me what to do?"

"Strange as it seems."

Gunshots died down as the men watched in eager silence. Bucky grinned and nodded. "Fair enough. But what about you, Steve? Or did that serum turn you into a marksman as well?"

"I could always use the practice."

Bucky held out the butt of his pistol. "Show me what you've got."

Steve smirked as he grabbed the pistol and took his stance before the target. Shot one went sideways, barely nicking the mark. He repositioned, arms straight, shoulders tensed, and squeezed the trigger again. Slightly better, but still on the side of the mark.

"Well done, Rogers." Bucky turned to see Peggy watching, unimpressed. "You've managed to annoy the Hydra soldier." She pushed past Bucky to grab the pistol from Steve. In one swift move she'd positioned herself with feet shoulder width apart, right foot slightly forward, aimed, and loosed a bullet straight to the center of the bull's eye. She handed Steve the gun again. "I just saved your ass."

"I vote Miss Peggy, here, joins the team," Dugan roared.

"Oh, no. I couldn't possibly. I've other responsibilities that'll take me across the globe."

Steve smiled. "An honorary member, then? Part of the team when you're with us?"

Bucky licked his lower lip and nodded. "Yeah, Peggy, would ya? It'd be an honor to have you."

She grinned. "Yes, alright, then."

"Now that that's settled, can we get back to shooting?" Falsworth asked. Everyone resumed their positions and took aim at the targets. Falsworth and Peggy took turns sharing the target, and Steve took the one beside them.

"You're too tense," Bucky said as Steve took aim again. "Relax your shoulders and breathe, alright?" Steve dropped his shoulders a touch, keeping his arms straight. Bucky sighed. "Honestly, Steve. Didn't they teach you anything in bootcamp?"

Steve straightened, dropping his arms to his side. "I've been a bit preoccupied. Besides, I'm better with my shield."

"Take aim again." Steve did so. Bucky pressed Steve's shoulders lower, bent his arms at the elbows, and raised the gun a fraction of an inch. Then he stood behind Steve, checking his aim over his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he saw Peggy watching them. The look on her face was guarded, and she looked away, back to her own target. "Breathe in, and then slowly squeeze the trigger as you exhale. This will keep you loose and ready for the back kick."

Steve did as instructed, and this time hit his mark.

. . .

**Bucky** had his hands in his pockets and was scuffing his feet along the pavement, sending pebbles skittering ahead. Steve lagged a few steps behind, his head bowed, and had a slight limp to his walk. Bucky slowed so that they were walking side by side. "You could walk away."

Steve shook his head. "They'd chase me." He kicked an errant chestnut, scowling at is as it bounced a serpentine trail and stopped against the curb. "Besides…they needed to be stopped."

"Yeah. It looks like you did a wonderful job." Steve glared at him, and Bucky laughed. "It's admirable, don't get me wrong." Steve resumed his look of dejection. "Look, I'll teach you."

"Teach me?"

"How to fight. It'll be fun."

"You'd do that?"

Bucky shrugged. "Sure! It's not like I can always be there to save your ass."

"Jerk."

"Punk."

"So where are we going?" Bucky herded him around the corner and pointed to a door halfway down the block. A sign above the entry marked it as a gym. "You planned this, didn't you?"

Bucky smirked and raised an eyebrow. "I'd hoped, anyway. But I wanted you to agree to it first."

"What made you think I 'd say no?"

He shrugged and said, "You can be a little stubborn, you know."

Steve scrunched his face. "Whatever. Show me what you've got."

Inside, they tossed their jackets on a vacant bench. Steve stripped to his undershirt, but Bucky went bare chested. Steve raised his eyebrow.

"Is that necessary?" he asked.

"Just put these on," Bucky said as he chucked a set of boxing gloves at Steve. He juggled to catch them, jammed his small hands inside, and struggled with the laces. Bucky helped him before putting on his own gloves. Steve ducked into the ring and stood uncertainly in the center, waiting for Bucky to jump over the ropes. He landed gracefully with a soft thud. "The first thing you need to know is defense."

"So it hurts less when they're kicking me in the ribs?"

"Just put your arms up." Steve did so, but kept his fists only to shoulder height. He faced Bucky squarely and stood slightly hunched, though his knees didn't bend. Bucky laughed and shook his head. "No wonder you get your ass kicked. Angle your body. If you're jabbing with your right, keep your right foot back. Hold your right hand by your chin. Your left hand is higher to protect your face." Steve made some minor adjustments to his stance. Bucky nodded. "Use your size to your advantage. Being small isn't a weakness. You can duck away easier, slip away through smaller spaces."

Steve lowered his hands in exasperation. "Will you just get on with the lesson?"

Bucky raised his fists. So did Steve. "Block me."

Steve loosed a breath and waited for Bucky's first jab. His fist was quick, and Steve winced, though Bucky stopped mid-swing. He touched his glove to Steve's cheek. "You have to move your arms, your feet…something!" They resumed their stances. "Again."

For an hour, Steve winced and ducked away from Bucky's soft swings. Once or twice he made a successful block, grinning each time. Bucky never grew impatient or frustrated. He loved that Steve was slowly getting excited. He didn't mind running the same defensive drills on repeat. So long as Steve held his look of determination—brows knit, lips pursed, eyes focused—Bucky was going to help him.

After ten minutes of a rapid-fire drill, where Bucky tossed jab after jab while Steve blocked, sweat ran along Steve's hairline. His cheeks and ears burned pink, and his breathing became a thin, wheezing rasp. Bucky dropped his hands, but Steve held his stance.

"Come on," he gasped. "Keep…going."

"Steve, you're on the brink of an asthma attack." Steve shook his head. "I'm not going to do something that could hurt you."

"I can do it." He doubled over, trying to take in a full breath of air.

Bucky motioned toward the bench. "Take a break. I'll get some water." He helped Steve out of the ring and ushered him to his seat before going to get two waters. On his way, he was stopped by a bulky brunette by the punching bags.

"Y'er wasting your time, you know."

Bucky stopped. "I'm just trying to teach my friend self defense."

The man laughed. "Well you're wasting your time. That fairy-ass twig would snap in two in a real fight."

Bucky tensed. "You better stop talking while you can."

"What are you gonna do about it? I could snap you just like I would your fairy."

"I told you to stop talking."

"So you do want to fight?"

Bucky knew this man had twice his bulk, and he probably could snap him in two, but that didn't matter. "No one insults my friend."

"Bucky!" Steve came running up to the two of them, his breathing a softer rasp. Bucky didn't move until Steve put his hand on his shoulder. "It's ok, Buck. Let's just go."

"Yeah. Alright. This creep's not worth it."

They returned to gather their things. As Bucky shrugged on his shirt, Steve did up his own buttons. "So what was that about?"

"Forget it."

"No. You're always telling me to walk away. What did he say?" Steve pulled on his jacket.

"He was an asshole, alright?"

"Alright."


End file.
